Fighter
by Subtlynice
Summary: Edward Cullen has many stories to tell, but not everyone can tell them for him. Here are three women who can: Elizabeth Masen, Esme Platt and Isabella Swan. Why? They see things through a mother’s eyes.


Fighter

_Edward Cullen has many stories to tell, but not everyone can tell them for him. Here are three women who can: Elizabeth Masen, Esme Platt and Isabella Swan. Why? They see things through a mother's eyes._

The progression of Edward's character, told through the eyes of the mothers in his life - Elizabeth, Esme and finally, Bella.

**

* * *

Elizabeth**

Elizabeth Masen knew from the start that her son was a fighter.

The birth was premature and fraught with difficulties. When he arrived, he was a sickly, tiny little thing. All purple and wrinkled and bawling like a banshee at the top of his lungs.

The doctors warned her that he might not make it. It was the year 1901, and childbirth was hard enough if the baby arrived _on time_.

But one look at his pretty, sleeping little face, and she knew that he would survive. Such a beautiful creature couldn't possibly die. It was unfathomable to her.

"Edward," she'd insisted. "Edward Junior. My little boy. My little Edward."

**...**

At the age of five, she'd stumbled across him sitting cross-legged in the dining room, with his father's rifle in his hands.

"Edward!" She'd cried, yanking the weapon away from her son and throwing it across the room. "You bad, bad boy! You must _not_ touch daddy's things! Where did you find that... that..."

She couldn't say it. _Gun_. Elizabeth had never liked her husband's hunting friends, and she'd been quite clear in her distaste of the sport. It was an old man's attempt to regain his youthful masculinity, she'd declared. Shooting pheasants and foxes to ease their war-hungry hearts. A cruel sport for foolish men.

Her son had scrambled to his feet with his head bowed in shame, and he flinched when she tried to come closer. He'd associated the harsh tone of her voice with the beatings he sometimes received for bad behaviour. But Elizabeth didn't want to hit her son for playing with his father's gun. Violence was not the answer in this situation – and it very rarely was the answer in any situation at all.

**...**

Six years later, on his eleventh birthday party, he'd invited some school friends to their house for tea. As a special birthday gift, Elizabeth delved into the family funds and brought her son the latest board game – _Merchant Marine_. It was his most expensive birthday gift yet, and said to be invented by the chairman of the U.S. Shipping Board himself. Edward's father had taken him boating the week before and they'd learnt to fish together.

Edward had accepted the gift graciously, with a kiss on his mother's cheek and a polite "thank you, mother," which made her heart swell with pride. She watched as he and his friends read through the instructions and set up the game. Ten minutes later, the board had been forgotten completely, and the boys were racing the model boats around the wooden floor, instead.

"My boat's faster than yours!" One exclaimed.

"My boat's a submarine," cried another, "and it's going to be used to send secret messages in the war!"

Elizabeth winced as she saw her son's head shoot up.

"War?" Edward had asked, sounding so endearingly confused. "What war, Timothy?"

The boy – Timothy – shot Elizabeth a glance, and paled at her angry expression. She'd heard the rising talk of war, of course. Everyone was worried. Elizabeth liked to keep up-to-date with the world news, and she knew that the Kaiser's speeches were becoming more and more pointedly pro-war. England was already on edge, and if the American government decided to get involved... what would it mean for her charming, sheltered son?

"My... my momma says that – "

"I think Timothy's mother would rather he didn't spread silly rumours to the other boys. Isn't that right, Timothy?"

Timothy visibly flinched at her words, and nodded hurriedly. Edward looked up at his mother and then back to the boat in his hand, saying nothing. He was quiet for the rest of that day.

**...**

"Mother? Is... is there really going to be a war soon?"

Elizabeth sighed. Edward had been an absolute darling today – helping her and the servants with the household chores and staying out of his father's private office for once. Then he'd settled at her feet and had been perfectly content to let her run her fingers through his auburn locks, admiring her son's perfect features. He had her hair and her eyes, yet he was so very like his father... so very beautiful, in every way. And so well behaved.

She should have known it was too good to be true.

"Yes," she admitted. She'd sheltered him for long enough. "Yes, it does seem that way. Trouble is stirring and there is talk of America becoming involved."

Edward was quite for a moment. Then he brushed his mother's hand from his head and stood up to face her. His green eyes were glinting amber in the firelight, and his whole face was alive with satisfaction and determination. It scared her.

"Then I would like to fight," he declared. "Father told me he was part of the army once, too. I'd like to do my part to be of service to my country."

Elizabeth stared. Her boy – yes, still just a boy – was so beautiful. His face was flushed with pride and joy. If she hadn't known better, she'd compare the happiness radiating from his expression with the glow of first love. But Edward hadn't experienced love yet. And if his father's war propaganda went any further, he never would.

**...**

"Mother? Mother!"

Elizabeth watched through hazy eyes as her son drew closer. She was so cold. She saw flames flickering in the nearby grate, but the fire didn't seem to warm her. Where was she? She remembered finding her husband Edward leaning against the doorframe, sickly and pale... running for help... being introduced to the charming, mysterious night doctor who had assured her that he'd do everything in his power to help her husband...

It was the influenza, she realised. Her husband had contracted the disease, and it was spreading to her.

"Edward," she croaked, "don't come too close."

He'd ignored her, of course. He would not stay away – he even insisted that he stayed as close to her as possible, while the day maid telephoned for help. She'd raised him to be chivalrous. A gentleman. And her husband had raised him to be brave. Together, they'd doomed him to their own fate.

**...**

She awoke for the last time at a late hour, the following night. She was cold, but her body was sweating profusely beneath her blankets. Edward was in the bed next to her, and had cried out in his sleep. He was shaking. Sweat glistened beneath his brow. Though she herself was weak and frail, she'd climbed over her own bed to comfort him without a second thought.

"Edward," she'd whispered, half-delirious with her own pain. "Edward, hush. You'll be fine. You'll be safe. You'll be happy."

The night doctor – Dr. Carlisle Cullen – had rushed to settle her back down.

"He will be, won't he?" She cried, suddenly terrified that he would follow in his parent's footsteps. "He will be fine."

Dr. Cullen nodded soothingly, but she was angry. The doctor was paying too much attention to her, when he could be using that precious time to help her son. It was too late for her. But not for Edward. It would never be too late for her brave, darling boy.

Edward shuddered, tossing and turning in his sleep. He cried out her name, like a child. Seventeen years on, and he was still just a frail, sickly child. Though Elizabeth felt the disease overwhelming her body, she turned back to the doctor with steely determination – a mother's resolve.

"Save _him_!" She cried.

"I'll do everything in my power," he said as he had said before.

She grabbed his white coat with a strength that even surprised herself.

"Promise me," she whispered, voice hoarse. And then, with minutes left, she made her plea.

The night doctor had intrigued her. A niggling voice in the back of her mind had warned her that all was not as it appeared. And Elizabeth was curious – too curious for a polite young lady of her age, as her father used to say. But she didn't care. She had to find a way to save her son. If it meant abandoning the usual social standards, then so be it.

Dr. Cullen was pale and tired looking. He only worked night shifts. He handled his patients with the care she would give to a delicate china doll. But when he touched her forehead, it was _his_ hands that were as cold as china, not hers.

He was special. She was sure of that. And he was lonely, too.

"You must do everything in _your_ power," she'd commanded weakly, using his words from before. "What others cannot do, that is what you must do for my Edward."

The shock she saw on his face was as good as a confession. Elizabeth was shrewd, not stupid. She knew what the signs were telling her. There was a chance that she would regret what she asked for... that Carlisle Cullen was not as good and friendly as he appeared. There was a chance that he was a monstrous angel – a wolf in sheep's clothing.

But at least Edward would be safe.

At least her son would survive.

Her son. Her only child. He was so beautiful, so young. And even trembling in the bed beside her, he looked so radiant and alive. So strong. She had known, from the start that he would be strong. A fighter – not of war, but of sickness. He would fight this sickness as he had fought sickness before. And he would survive.

He _had_ to survive.

Her son, the fighter.

She'd fought, too. She'd fought for her son.

And she'd won.

* * *

**Esme**

Esme Platt had known from the start that Edward was a fighter.

Esme was broken when she jumped. Broken inside and out. She had tried to love her first husband, but he hadn't made it easy – he was angry and bitter when sober, and only slightly more bearable after drinking himself into a stupor. He'd made it hard for Esme to trust him – to trust anyone. But with Carlisle, trust was natural. He'd healed her broken leg at the age of sixteen. She still remembered the young doctor from that first chance meeting, ten years previously and of course, she'd thought of him often afterwards.

Still, Carlisle may have healed her broken bones twice now, but there were other pains that Esme couldn't escape from. Not even vampire venom could mend a mother's broken heart.

**...**

Esme's first introduction to Edward had been awkward and brief. It was obvious that none of them – Carlisle, Edward or even herself – knew what to do. She and Edward were still very new to their new way of life. Carlisle had invited them to join his humane lifestyle, and they had accepted. But neither really knew what they had been pulled into by agreeing.

Edward intrigued her. She wanted to talk to this strange, distant boy. He was a gentleman – admitting straight away that he could hear the innermost workings of her mind. That confession had deeply embarrassed her at first. After all, she could see how uncomfortable he was watching romance bloom between herself and his father figure, unable to give them privacy. Still, he never mentioned her private thoughts in conversation, and it was good of him to let her know immediately of his talent, so as to spare her any later embarrassment.

When he left, needing to satiate his thirst for human blood, she remembered him as the good, chivalrous boy he had been then and not as the nomadic, broken man he had become. And when he returned, she enveloped him in a nurturing embrace and whispered words of comfort to him, trying in vain to alleviate the pain and guilt she saw on his handsome young face. He didn't hug her back. But he didn't push her away, either.

**...**

When she took her first – and _only_ – accidental kill, Carlisle wasn't around. She'd crawled home, a wrecked, weeping mess... to find an empty house. Unable to bear the shame and guilt, she'd considered ending things there. She knew from Carlisle that it wouldn't be easy, but it was possible. She couldn't do it alone, though. She needed...

"Esme?"

Edward rushed to her side in alarm. It occurred to her that this was the only person who could help her now. Edward understood her pain. He knew that she would sooner die a thousand deaths than hurt another human being. He could read everything she was thinking in that moment. He knew that she deserved death.

"That's not true," he murmured. "Don't think that, Esme."

She let out a strangled cry, and her fist hit the ground uselessly. Carlisle could never love her now – tainted as she was. Carlisle had never killed. Not even as a newborn had Carlisle given in to the thirst he'd felt. And now here she was, ten years after her transformation, and not ten minutes ago, she'd taken a human life.

Ever the gentleman, Edward patted her awkwardly on the back. His words, however, were sincere.

"I'm sorry. So sorry. "

"I'm... I'm a..." She couldn't bring herself to say the word aloud. She forced herself not to think of the body that lay abandoned, just a few streets away.

"You're not," Edward whispered, clutching her shoulder. "You're not a... a _murderer_. It was an accident. You're trying to do what is right. You _are_ doing what is right."

She reached for him then, moving to fully accept his embrace as she wept into his chest, trying to force the tears that would not come. He held her tight, and it was the most affection he'd ever shown her. The most affection she'd seen him show anyone – even Carlisle, whom he idolised.

"We're trying to do what is best," he repeated softly. "Sometimes we slip up. But think of how many lives we've saved. Think of Carlisle. Think of his patients. I'm not a good person, Esme, but I can try to be. And sometimes, when I look at you and Carlisle... I don't feel so bad after all."

There were so many things she wanted to tell him in that moment. He hadn't ever been so blunt in expressing his own feelings before, but he'd made no move to shield her from his thoughts this time. She wanted to question him. She wanted to speak to him about the girl whose life she'd taken, and ask for more details about the men he'd killed.

"In time," he said quietly. "We'll discuss it in time, I promise. I know it doesn't seem like it, but time will help."

She'd heard that before, of course. But time to reflect upon her dreadful act was not something she was looking forward to. She remembered the last time she'd been told of time's ability to heal. After the death of her son, she hadn't seen anything worth living for. Time had sounded too long. Too hard. Back then, she'd rather jump from life than live through the pain.

But she did have something to live for now. Or rather, someone. Two people in fact.

So she had decided to persevere. Not that perseverance was any easier this time around. In fact, strangely enough, knowing she had something to live for made living harder.

"It's horrible," she sobbed tearlessly. "So, so horrible. I..."

But even the most vile words were too weak to express the pain she felt now.

"I know," Edward said, and he wrapped his arms around her again without hesitation. "I know."

**...**

"I wanted to join the army," he told her one day, "I was going to follow in the footsteps of my father. Fight for my country."

Esme studied him curiously. He'd never seemed to her to be the type of boy to want such a thing. He may have... _rebelled_ against Carlisle's cause for a few years, but the experience had broken him. Edward wasn't a killer. He might have _thought_ he wanted to go to war... but she couldn't imagine her boy fighting anyone other than himself.

"Well I'm glad you didn't," she told him. "You wouldn't have survived, and I don't know what I'd do without you."

Edward didn't ask. He didn't have to. He saw himself in her thoughts, the same way he'd always seen them. He saw her fears. Her questions. He saw the affection that had developed – an affection as strong as the love she shared with Carlisle, but very different in nature. And he saw the child she had lost. The poor, nameless baby she could hardly bear to remember.

"I don't know what I'd do without you," she repeated, grasping his hand.

**...**

Each moment of Esme's life – her second life that is, as she refused to think of it as her death – was precious to her. Her mind's new clarification made each moment immortalised forever. The good and the bad were captured and each memory was tucked away just waiting to be recalled, like a dusty photograph re-discovered.

One particular memory would _never_ need dusting. She recalled it too often, you see.

It was a simple moment, in hindsight. A new town, a new smokescreen. The three of them had agreed beforehand to continue under the guise of a young family – an often-told performance, with Carlisle and Esme as a newly married couple, and Edward playing the role of Esme's younger brother. But when the time came for their first introductions, Edward surprised them all.

"My name is Edward Cullen," he announced proudly, shaking hands with their new neighbours. "We're new to the area, but my father here, Dr. Carlisle Cullen" – he spoke the name with such pride, pride that Esme could always recall perfectly – "has recently acquired a new position at the local hospital and we wanted to live nearby. As a _family_."

Esme had watched the introductions from the lobby. She heard every word and relished in each syllable. She watched as Carlisle squeezed his son's shoulder in thanks, and the smiles they shared, the moment unnoticed by the elderly neighbours.

And then Edward turned on the spot, gesturing to the front door where she stood.

"And this is my mother, Esme," he said, smiling warmly at her as he spoke. His eyes – golden brown, like hers – spoke volumes in that moment. She saw the same respect he showed Carlisle, directed now at her.

"My mother," he whispered, almost unintelligibly even to her, "Esme."

**...**

She found him slumped on the floor beside his piano one day. Carlisle was working, and she'd just come home from the local market – keeping up appearances was everything to them, lest the neighbours become suspicious.

"Edward? What is it? What's wrong?"

He said nothing, but he didn't have to. She often found him in dark moods such as this one. He would never let Carlisle see how deeply this life affected him, and he even tried to hide it from her. But she knew. Oh, how she knew.

There were times when she'd worry that he had been changed at too young an age. Decades had gone by, and still, he was alone. She fretted over his sullen moods and his dark, self-depreciating beliefs. Edward was both tormented and tormentor. He broke himself down, only to stitch the pieces back together and carry on with life. He still didn't know what there was to live for, but he did it anyway. He was incomparably brave, facing an unfathomable future with no reason to hope for something more. It was for Carlisle and herself that he continued, and she marvelled at the strength it cost him.

"I'm not brave," he choked, reading her thoughts. "I'm not strong. Not really. I'm nothing. Nothing."

"You are," she insisted. "You've been through so much. And you can go through more, though you shouldn't have to. Now stop thinking so much. I won't let you hurt yourself like this."

But Edward shook his head.

"I died of the Spanish Influenza, Esme," he said, and the words were spoken so sadly that Esme felt the need to draw closer. "I wanted to die a glorious death. If I'd died in war, I would be remembered honourably. I would be a hero. Strong, brave – "

"War is not the only path to bravery," Esme interrupted resolutely. "My husband went to war, and he was by no means a brave man. He was just cruel enough to live without guilt after destroying so many lives."

Edward said nothing. For a moment he remained as he was, his head in his hands, legs curled beneath his chest. Then he unravelled himself to look at her.

"You really think I'm brave?" Edward asked. His eyes flashed with something akin to hope, she thought.

"You already know the answer to that."

He was quiet then, and was as still as only their kind could be. But he knew. And for the first time, that hope in his eyes refused to fade.

**...**

Edward. Her son. It wasn't intended, but he was as good as her son now. She hadn't forgotten her lost boy, but Edward was as much her son as Charles Evenson's unnamed child was. He had taken a new place in her heart – a corner untouched by her parents or Carlisle or the baby. A space made just for Edward to fill. As the family grew, her heart made way for more children, but her lonely boy remained.

He _was_ a fighter. But not of wars. She'd watched him fight as the decades dragged by. He'd fought his own vampiric instincts, and like Carlisle – like herself – he'd won. But it wasn't enough for Edward. It wasn't enough that he could control his thirst. He didn't want it merely subdued. He wanted it gone. But the thirst was a part of him, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't escape it completely. Until he realised that, he was doomed.

He'd fight himself.

And he'd win.

And he'd lose.

* * *

**Bella**

Isabella Swan had known from the start that Edward was a fighter.

She'd witnessed it herself, on that very first day. Fighting his instincts as he struggled with the temptation of her blood. He'd won that day. He'd won every day. But only just.

He'd come so far, seen so much. In body, he was a fearsome predator. In mind, he was still the sickly little boy he'd always been as a child. Only now, one-hundred-and-five years later, he didn't have his mother Elizabeth to kiss each cut and wipe away each tear. He didn't even have the release of tears to find comfort in. External cuts were impossible, but internally, he was in shreds.

She kissed him. She kissed away each battle wound, and in time, they began to heal and fade. She kissed him many times and in many different ways. Sometimes, it was passionate and fiery. Sometimes their love was erotic; tongues swiping, teeth clashing, bodies tugging.

Sometimes it was different. Sometimes she'd kiss his forehead and remind him of their daughter, and all the things she loved about their family. Sometimes their kisses – which started out so desperate – would become chaste and gentle. Sometimes she wouldn't even kiss him. She'd just look at him, and he'd understand everything she couldn't explain in that moment. Sometimes his scars faded with just one single look.

**...**

Bella had never given motherhood much thought.

If she had, perhaps she would have realised how important that child would become. If she'd been a good judge of her own character, perhaps she would have traced it back... back to her tendency to adopt the role of carer for her own parents... back to the desperation and strength of her love for her family, friends and lover. Perhaps then, she might have understood . Perhaps. But Bella had never been a good judge of character. Especially her own.

Edward was the only person she'd ever fully understood. Edward – and their daughter. When nothing else made sense, she'd only have to look to her family for guidance.

And she did look to them. She studied their features and found the guidance she was looking for.

**...**

There were times when she'd watch Renesmee.

Just watch.

She'd drink in every last detail, and wonder how something so beautiful could possibly exist. She'd always assumed that Edward would be the most beautiful thing in her world. But Renesmee was a symbol of their love. Their trust. Their unity. No matter how beautiful Edward was physically, Renesmee would always be infinitely more lovely. While Edward's beauty represented the beautiful soul she knew he still had, Renesmee was living _proof_ of his soul. Proof of his love.

And so, sometimes she'd just watch as their daughter slept.

Just watch.

**...**

She watched Edward, too. Watched as he fought.

She'd seen him do so much. Seen him put himself through the most agonising situations.

He fought himself. That was obvious to her. The enigma was _why_ he did it. Why did he fight? What was he fighting for?

It was only after the birth of their child that she truly understood.

He fought for love. Family. Friendship.

He fought himself to become a better person. To be the son Carlisle and Esme – and Elizabeth and Edward Masen – deserved.

He fought himself to save the people around him. To save her from careening vans and paper cuts and malicious enemies and a broken heart. To save their daughter from their foes.

But he didn't have to fight anymore.

Because she understood his plight. And she would fight _for_ him now.

She understood the need – the instinctive compulsion – to fight for her child. She understood Esme and Rosalie and even Elizabeth Masen, whom she'd never met. Protecting her daughter, surrounded by enemies, she'd finally come full circle. She'd found romantic love in Edward. When he left, she found comfort in her easy friendship with Jacob. After much turmoil, pain and jealousy she'd found a reconciliation between the two. And with the birth of her child, she'd experienced maternal love for the first time.

And she'd fight for that same child. She'd do anything, give anything to keep her child safe. Renesmee came first. Like Elizabeth Masen before her, Bella would fight.

They all would.

And with love on their side, they'd always win.

* * *

**End Notes**:

Most of the women I've befriended through Twilight and fanfiction are mothers. If not, they're at least significantly older than me, and yet, not once have they ever patronised me because I'm young. So this is my gift to all the wonderful women in our community. Without you, some of the greatest fanfiction in this community wouldn't exist. And I don't even want to think of a world without Twilighted! So this story is for you. Thank you so much for everything you have contributed to make our fandom what it is today. X

A quick, self-promoting reminder: both the "You're Never Too Young to Write" contest and the "Volturi Fanfic Contest" are open for voting now, and both close on June 30th. Links to the relevant pages are on my profile.


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